


Mamá

by Questions3



Series: "All Original Master Pieces of Shit" - MSI [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alzheimer, Depressing, Gen, Grandchildren, Grandmothers, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Mortality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Questions3/pseuds/Questions3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the things that go bump in the night aren't scary, doesn't mean they're not gonna hurt something awful</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mamá

**Author's Note:**

> Alzheimer's suxs

            Something was moving.

            It was somewhere in the vicinity of 4 in the morning, it was dark as the underside of a five year olds bed and I could hear that _something_ was _moving_!

            Maybe there’d been one too many horror movies on Netflix, maybe reading that clip on parasitic America wasn’t the best laid plans of Mice and Men, and maybe I was entirely too old for this paranoia. Didn’t really matter because I was sitting up in bed, scared shitless, listening to a scraping sound on the tile outside my bedroom door. Nevermore nevermore, outside my chamber door. That wasn’t helping anyone either.

            Rolling my eyes in the clinging darkness I realize it must be the dog. That big bastard probably got tired of being alone outside and is clacking towards my bedroom door as I sit here quoting ravens and thinking about dead drunks lusting after their cousins. Black behemoth is such a baby. But he’s my baby so it’s okay. Getting up I stub my foot against the goddamned nightstand trying to find my fucking shoes. The little shit poodle is old as sin and incontinent to boot. That’s all I’d need, a heart attack, creeper codependent black lab, and to step in cold wet piss as I make my way to the bathroom. May have had the shit scared out of me but the piss had been held back by the levies.

            Walk walk walk. Open the squeaky door. This is a fucking horror movie room, it really is. With the killer furniture, the ceiling fan that’s old as Moses and clicks the entire night away, now the door’s started squeaking again. If Freddy or Jason isn’t on the other side ready to run me through there’s been a _major_ missed opportunity here and somewhere _someone_ is being read the horror movie riot act.

            And then my eyes landed in the hallway, where the kitchen light made the lump blocking the exit _just_ visible. I live in the back of the house, next to the second bathroom. If I scream the only help I’m getting is my niece who’d really only be useful as blonde girl fodder in anything resembling classic 80s horror. Problem being she’s as hispo as I am so no help there. Either way there was _something_ sitting there in the hall, blocking the escape and it hadn’t made a sound or moved since I left the room. It _was_ breathing though, I could see the rise and fall of it’s… well _it_ was rising and falling in a rhythmic matter that suggested breathing. So to recap, there was something denser in the darkness of the hall. It was solid and silent as it lay there. Eyes narrowing into the darkness I whispered, “Goliath?”

            All of a sudden it began keening and warbling as it dragged itself forward, towards my voice, “Ehhh, Ehhhh, Ehhhh, Ehhhhh!!!” The speed was terrifying, the limp figure bent and bobbing as it struggled and shook on unsteady arms to reach me in the darkness.

            “Jesus Christ!” I yelped, running forward. “Mamá! Did you fall out of bed!? What the hell happened?!” reaching down I clasped the suddenly grasping hands as the withered leather face of my abuelita was superimposed over the shadows. She clutched at my hands with all the force her time-ravaged body could muster. If she were clinging to life with that same voracity she’d live to be a hundred. As it was, the Alzheimer’s would probably make ninety a pipedream. But at 88 she’d lived a long life filled with children and love. Didn’t make this sight any less demented.

            “Ayúdame! Ayúdame, por favor,” her voice cracked at the end as she began to cry again.

            “Shh, shh, shh. Un momento mamá. I’ll have you up in a minute.” And I did. She was all of 78 pounds at this point and I may be 5’2” and overweight but I had it in me to lift her into my arms and bring her to her rocker. Sleep wasn’t visiting again tonight, and she’d just get pissy about being put in bed again. It didn’t visit long most nights anyway, me and big sissy staying up with her to make sure she didn’t hurt herself and got something that at least _resembled_ rest. But I’d really been hoping the Ambien would fucking work. She couldn’t live like this, with all this anxiety and none of the sleep. “Did you forget how to use your legs?”

            “Ayyayayayaya,” she was rocking back and forth as she stared into nothingness, just keening into the night. The light from the kitchen cast a sickly yellow glow that allowed me to assess the damage. There didn’t seem to be any, her ‘bed’ was the couch now, since her own room was scaring the crap out of her (no fucking clue why, it just was), and it was far from high enough to really hurt anything. Didn’t mean she could afford the fall however.

            “Mamá, que pasa? Dice me. Que pasa? Tu duele?” I don’t actually speak Spanish; I know enough to make sure she’s not in pain though.

            “Ayyayayayaya,” more rocking, more vacancy. With a sigh I stroke her hair and let her grab at my hands, making shushing noises every now and again. Eventually she calms down enough to breathe. That’s when she looks up at me and seems to wonder where to place me. I’ve seen that look in acquaintances before they remember what party they’d met me at, and I’ve seen it in her face before to, so no big surprise. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t cut a little more of me away, but it’s hardly her that’s doing the cutting.

            Smiling bright I ask softly, “Tu quiede café?” The light’s just beginning to come through. I can see the dust blue of the beginning of morning. It’s been about an hour and a half or two since I first heard the scraping. Perfect time for some Bustelo! She smiles at me, probably just because she sees my own smile. I’ve been told I have that effect on people, I wish it had more to do with recognition but I’ll take what I can get at this point. If she’s smiling she’s not in pain, that’s good enough for me, “Café mamá?”

            “Si. Si, café. Un chepito nada mas!”

            “Yes, mamá, un chepito.” With a wink she doesn’t understand, a quick glance to make sure the T.V. is on the Spanish station, and a last hand squeeze I’m off to the kitchen. I’ll see about moving her into mine and big sis’s room tonight. Medicare isn’t gonna pay for a hospital bed so the next best thing to a bed with railings would be the wall and a mass of granddaughter one can’t roll over to fall onto the ground in the middle of the night. Paid for by years of loving devotion. 


End file.
